| |
For Aggie, these memories would be difficult on her, but she’d talk about them regardless. Where to start? “My dad left America and moved to Greece when I turned nine. He divorced my mother, and I remember they were having an argument about me. I’d pulled a bully’s hair and got in trouble with the school, again. I was told to be nicer, more forgiving.”
“What did the bully do?”
“She shoved me into a wall and called me fat. I retaliated. My father believed my mother’s job involved taking me in hand, and when I refused to follow all the rules, he left.” The memory of the day was burned into her brain, waking up to her father carrying a suitcase out the front door, her mother still asleep in bed.
There was no note, no hugs and kisses goodbye. He’d just left and broke her damn heart. “My mom stuck around, bouncing between replacement husbands to support us until my senior year of high school. Then she went on a cruise for spring break while I was working overtime at my job. She met some sugar daddy, married him on my graduation day, and took off.”
Another burn to her fragile psyche. No graduation parties for Aggie. Instead, it had been a freedom celebration. At least, that was how dearest Mom, or as she called her now, Edith, referred to it. They were celebrating the freedom to live life as they chose. Really, Edith got to live the life she wanted. Aggie got stuck with whatever she could come up with on her own.
“We hardly talk now. She calls every so often, and we move through a perfunctory conversation with the same questions, same answers.”
“Sounds awful.”
“It’s reality, and I’ve moved on, but then there’s my best friend. June and I were joined at the hip...through high school, even into college. She meets a guy who introduces her to this church. When I couldn’t work my schedule around to try this place out, more than a couple times, she ditched me. I mean, cut off all contact. No matter how close we were, she still gave up our friendship.”
Murphy frowned. “These people sound like assholes, Aggie. Including your parents. I don’t really think they left because you were unlovable. It sounds like these people took advantage of you and your quiet nature.”
She tried to believe it, tried to so hard, but then, “I can sometimes convince myself they possessed selfish natures until I get to Jordan.”
“The boyfriend who cheated on you?”
“Yes, if I’d been more, less needy, maybe he wouldn’t have cheated on me.” She’d looked at it from every angle. Several times during their relationship, she’d been inattentive, less responsive to him. Her mother would have called that a serious lapse in judgment. “I stopped paying attention to him. We lost some of the closeness from earlier on, and I let the gap widen. I failed at communicating or trying to put the spark back in our relationship. I let things fall apart.”
“Is this your own personal observation or something he told you?”
Moisture welled in her eyes and she heard Murph’s chair squeak as the legs slid sharply against the linoleum floor. Before she could object, or even answer his question, he hauled her to her feet and wrapped her in a hug. The way their bodies aligned, in some perfect way, like two puzzle pieces joining together, hit her straight in the chest and a knot formed there.
This hug touched her emotional center more than the first one. She could easily blame it on all the memories she’d stirred, coupled with this display of affection. Jordan had heard her cry about her family before and always told her to forget them, live in the now with him. Murph did the opposite.
“They were assholes, and I know it hurts. But this hug is a good memory. One you can draw on when the bad ones surface, which they always do even when we don’t want them. I’m not leaving you.”
She squeezed him back, loving how his muscled parts fit against her soft ones. She was incredibly softer than him, but it worked. He held her tighter and smelled of pine and paint, a refreshing scent. When they finally pulled apart, more like their upper halves loosening the hold on one another, he kept his arms and hands entangled with hers. They’d shared something, a common respect for both of them being a bit damaged, a bit not-quite-right.
They locked eyes and for a moment, Aggie believed he’d kiss her. She wanted him to. Just once, to know what the experience of kissing someone who got her was like.
Instead, he said, “Let me paint you.”
#
Aggie sharply inhaled and then asked the hard-to-answer question. “Why?”
“You’re so strong, fierce. I want to capture the emotion, the essence of you.” Sometimes he surprised himself—the reason sounded decent. He also didn’t want to let her go, but she pulled away from him and started pacing the kitchen.
“I’m really uncomfortable about showing my body to anyone.”
He held up his hands. “No, you’re misunderstanding me. This is clothes-on, completely. I would never spring nude posing on someone as a fun, random suggestion.”
That seemed to be the reassurance she needed. “Okay, where do we do this?”
He pointed to the living room. “In there. Feel free to take a seat on the couch or wherever...the chair even. You do what feels natural, and I’ll move to paint you.”
So she did. Grabbing her bottle of water, she propped herself into the large chair in the center of the room. He would’ve suggested she grab that one, just because the shape was more versatile to poses. She tucked her legs underneath her and propped her head in one hand.
He grabbed a blank canvas from his supply room, one already treated and ready for use. When he walked back in, she’d kicked off her shoes and let her hair free from its ponytail. She became the embodiment of his muse, and in a way, his savior. How could he ever tell her how she’d helped him, kept him from falling into dark places?
“Is this what you were thinking?”
Mouth dry, it took him a minute to respond. “Whatever is most comfortable for you. Ultimately, I’m at your mercy.”
Murph concentrated on gathering his supplies. For now, it’d be his stool, easel, canvas, and sketching pencils. The pre-sketch was essential to helping him line out the rest of the painting.
When he finally looked back at her, she appeared the opposite of fierce. No, Aggie transformed into sultry. Hair down around her shoulders, a smile teasing her lips. It was downright the exact opposite of what he’d expected, and he adjusted his pants and scooted away from his stool. “I’m going to fix the lighting.”
He moved to the controls on the wall for the track lighting angles. One of the few alterations he’d made to the apartment, and desperately needed. For a painter, light proved the difference between a decent painting and a masterpiece.
As the lights positioned into place, he tried to think about something unattractive. Something he disliked, merely to calm himself, like rainy days or sunburns. This woman drove him to the breaking point. If he’d been a tube of paint, he’d have exploded from heat exposure.
“How often do you have models for your paintings?”
Finally, an easy question. “Never, you’re my first one.”
“That makes me a little nervous.”
The last light finally in place, he moved back to his seat. “No expectations, Aggie. I want to paint you, any way and any how. I’m open to your conditions on this.”
She laughed, a little self-conscience-sounding laugh. The kind of laugh to sprout gooseflesh on his skin and send a tingle down his spine—a good one. “My conditions? Maybe I should set some.”
“You can, if you want.”
The way she phrased the sentence made it sound like she had something sexual planned, but he refused to let his mind wander in carnal directions. Easel set, pencil in hand, he gave his full gaze to Aggie. The lighting, now perfect, illuminated her hair and left part of her profile in shadow. “Would it hurt for you to turn your head a bit to the left?”
“No.” She did as he asked. “Is this all right?”
“Perfect.” As Murph started to sketch, his eyes took notice of things he’d not paid attention to before. The narrow slant of her eyes in comparison to her angular nose, the slender elongated neck, and even the elf-like structure of her ears were all new, exciting things to him.
Painting his muse in the flesh, even the sketching part, proved to be ten times better than what his own mind’s eye could conjure. He found happiness here with her, joy. “So talk to me. You can speak while I sketch. Ask questions. You confessed plenty of things to me.”
An audible sigh came from her. “Thank goodness. If I had to stay silent, this would end with me asleep.”
Then she paused, taking a moment to think, and he used the opportunity to start a quick sketch of her lips. Those two pieces of flesh were perfect, a cupid’s bow with a lush upper half compared to its pouty bottom twin.
She broke his focus when she asked, “How long have you wanted to paint?”
“I’ve been sketching and drawing since elementary school. Then I went to high school and fell in love with the classics. College is really where I went head first into tempera.”
“Tempera?”
“The ways of the masters. Tempera is painting with egg yolk, a simple definition, to be sure. It also involves layering and building upon the painting with multiple colors. Da Vinci used to paint this way before he moved to oils. Oils, of course, became the technique of preference.”
She moved, sitting up straight, which worked with the lighting and gave a nice view of her neck. “Really? Why paint with egg then?”
“It calls to me, a challenge to fully absorb me. I also wanted to dispel the belief that oil paintings are more vibrant than tempera oils. A common argument, but so far I think between myself, and several others, we’ve got them beat.” And he’d never been so fascinated by a painting process. It caught his interest and never let go.
“So you love it enough to make it a career?” He liked her interest in him, his life, and his hobbies.
“It’s really a hobby. My main income is the apartments. They were left to me by Grandma, along with enough savings to keep me comfortable. I invested a little bit, and it turns out those guys at the investment firm place they advertise everywhere on the radio are pretty smart. I’m making money, not losing it. The show and everything is something that fell into my lap. It’s kind of out of control.”
Truly, it was. “I met Patrick on a fluke visit to his gallery, shared a painting with him, and he loved it so much he put it on display. Then he convinced me to do the show...seemed like a great idea at the time—until someone ruined all my paintings. Now, I’m starting from scratch.”
“Why not postpone?”
Murph shook his head. “There are people interested in my work. Reputations are on the line, not only mine. For the first time in forever, I’m committed to something and it freaks me out, I guess.” Pressing too hard on the canvas, trying to nail the curvature of her shoulder, the tip of the pencil broke. “Shit.”
He reached into his pencil pouch for the sharpener and came up empty-handed. “Damn.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked as she stood.
“Busted the pencil and my sharpener is missing.” He set the pouch on the floor and the pencil on the easel. “My biggest issue lately is I keep moving things and I don’t remember doing it. A bad side effect, I guess. Memory is playing games with me.”
Aggie walked over. “Do we need to stop for the night?”
“I probably have another pencil in the spare room where I keep all my supplies.” When Murph stood, the distance between their bodies disappeared. When had she gotten so close? Heat radiated from her like a slow-burning fire in need of a new log to stoke the embers. “Unless you want to quit?”
She had to look up to make eye contact, then her hand touched his chest. He inhaled sharply and froze. There were moments in time he’d recalled never wanting to end. This fell in that category, and yet, he knew he needed to say something, do something...intelligent.
“Aggie—”
“Hush, I want to do this. Just this once. I want to be impulsive like you are and give you a happy memory. Like the hug, except not a hug.”
Then she leaned up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.
#
If Aggie looked herself up in the senior yearbook, she’d find the words Most likely to follow the rules next to her photo. Kissing Murph broke every damn rule; at least, the ones she’d wanted to stick to about taking care of herself, not getting involved with someone else. But she’d be a fool to regret it. Not when his lips were soft, different from the rest of his body. Not when she pressed a little harder, and he responded, fisting her hair.
A few more soft touches before he sharply inhaled. The opening, although brief, encouraged her to reach out with a tentative tongue. He reciprocated, and the meld began. Murph tasted like pizza, beer, and something smoky...delicious. She let herself get lost, as Murph called it. She refused to believe this moment was a bad thing, not when his arms, lips, and tongue touched some part of her that missed closeness, craved connection.
Lust rolled through her body, and she could easily picture this going further, involving the lights being lowered and both of them with fewer clothes. Reckless proved to be a very freeing emotion, one she should’ve embraced a long time ago.
She began to roam her hands between their bodies, down the hard plane of his chest, and finally cup his sizeable erection through his jeans. He moaned into her mouth and she pulled back, nipping at his lip.
Except, the hold he had on her hair and head remained, his other hand resting against her hip.
“Aggie, what...you didn’t—”
“Shh.” Leaning in, she reignited their make-out session.
She loved seeing him at a loss for words, out of breath and in shock. This, she held the key, the power to make him this way. Imagine if he came completely undone by her hand or her mouth. The prospect was heady, if she chose only one word to describe the concept playing havoc on her mind.
This time, he broke the connection and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of her nose.
“Take me to bed. Let me touch you.” The words slipped out, making her sound a bit desperate, but good sense had left the moment this whole thing happened.
The lust in his eyes drained away like a plug pulled loose from a full bathtub. He let go of her hair, of her, and took a few steps backward until he came in contact with a wall. “We should slow this down. Take a minute.”
Her eyes went wide and she clapped a hand over her mouth. The feelings, the wants, the him and her naked somewhere still existed. In her mind, a crystal-clear need, but he objected. After everything they shared in the last few hours, she couldn’t stay. Not one more minute. Strong women got the hell out when a man rejected them, no excuses or pity looks needed.
She feared looking at him, feared she’d see the same gaze her father had given her when he left. The same look of pity Jordan cast at her from his doorway...the look that said, I’m sorry but you’re not enough.
Murph stretched out an arm. “No...wait, Aggie. I’m not saying we have to stop.”
No way would she listen. She started humming, turned, grabbed her shoes off the floor, and launched into a sprint for the door. “I’ll see you later, Murph. Thanks for dinner.”
To hammer the point home, she slowed long enough to slam his front door behind her, before pounding up the staircase. Once secure in her apartment with the door locked, she curled up on her bed, a shivering, crying mess.